


Bad Blood

by echoist



Category: The Following
Genre: Gore, M/M, Pre-meditated murder, Vivisection, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>These streets are yours, you can keep them,<br/><i>They pull me back, and I surrender to the memories I run from.</i></i><br/>- Bastille; These Streets</p>
<p>An epilogue to Show Me Where Trouble Goes, set a little while after the ending of the series. For <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/paraboobizarre/pseuds/paraboobizarre">paraboobizarre</a>, who asked for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Blood

Jacob still has a spare key to the cottage. It took him a while to find it, digging through old bags and things stashed away in boxes, but there it was, glimmering up at him from an old key ring he hadn't used since Norfolk. It's a simple thing to book two tickets to Scranton while his classes are tracked out for Thanksgiving Break and drive to the Poconos from there in a rented sedan. They book a motel room in Avoca, near the airport, blending in with a mass of travelers bound for all sorts of interesting places. They've brought most of the things they need with them, wrapped and packed tightly in a suitcase to pass through security. The hunting knife Jacob intends to use is gift-wrapped, the card made out to his father.

Every year, on the day after Thanksgiving, Jacob's father would dragged him up to the cottage to take advantage of deer hunting season. The state guidelines were very specific, and his mother had compromised: if he stayed home to help out during the chaos of Christmas break, he could take Jacob along after the turkey was finished.

 

Paul and Jacob drive out to Arrowhead Lake the first night and see his truck in the driveway. If Jacob's mother had been with him, they would have brought the Lexus, instead. They wait out the night in a cheap, no-questions motel off Bear Lake Road, Paul checking in with a hat pulled down over his eyes and listing one false name on the register. They return just before dawn, dressed like joggers after parking nearly a mile away, just in time to see his truck pull out of the drive. Jacob knows he'll be back before nightfall; his father never had the knack for camping, or the patience to track a single animal through the night. There are no neighbors for at least half a mile in any direction, but they slip in before the sun fully rises, just in case. Hoods over their heads and gloves covering their hands, they leave their shoes by the back door to avoid any unnecessary dirt or treads across the carpet. Jacob pulls out the key, smiling when it turns in the lock like a charm. The security code had always been the same, year after year in his youth, and he's both pleased and embarrassed for his parents when he realises that the same eight numbers still work. He resets the alarm for the door once they're inside, turning the motion sensors off.

They wait, taking short naps in shifts until the truck pulls into the driveway in the late afternoon, a fresh deer carcass roped and tied across the back. Jacob counts at least ten points from his vantage in the upstairs window; he must have tracked it for hours. His father climbs out from behind the wheel, takes off his hat and hunting vest and and leaves them on the seat. They slip from the second floor bedroom when he heads for the front door, positioning themselves in a large linen closet near the master bedroom. They wait patiently as he leaves his boots in the mud room and lays his rifle out on the table, field-stripping it and oiling up the parts before returning it to the rack above the fireplace.

As Jacob predicted, he heads into the bedroom, removing his sweater and long-sleeved thermal shirt, unbuckling his pants before heading into the bath. He makes too much noise to hear the closet door softly open, and Paul springs from the shadows, two zip ties in his hands. He grabs the man by his arms and pins them behind his back, dodging a swift kick to his right leg. He's larger than Paul, not in height but in girth, and he slams his head back, connecting heavily with Paul's forehead. Jacob steps in, sliding the knife smoothly into his side, aiming for his liver and connecting with a soft mass of organ tissue. The knife is small and simple, a four inch blade mounted into a polished wooden hilt. It's exactly the sort of blade his father used to teach him how to gut a deer, and he finds it ideally suited to his task.

Jacob's father lets out a breath of air with a grunt and slips forward, giving Paul time to adjust his grips on the old man's arms and tie them securely behind his back, double ties in place to control his strength. 'Hello, Mr. Wells,' Paul growls softly against his ear as he pushes him into the bathroom. 'I must say, it's a pleasure to finally meet you.' His hair has gone gray, a paunch filling out his belly, and Paul can't find a single resemblance between father and son.

He hauls the man up to his feet, and Jacob slams the knife home again, this blow aimed for his stomach. Jacob lights the cigar he cut earlier and shoves it between his father's lips, forcing him to take in several deep lungfuls of smoke before moving back into the bedroom to set it aside in an ashtray on a small table. The old man looks up, choking on the smoke, eyes wide with pain and fear, and at last, recognition.

'Jacob?' he croaks. 'Jacob, what are you -' Paul hauls him up again roughly as his knees begin to give, blood racing down his pant legs to pool across the tiles at his feet.

'Yeah, dad,' Jacob answers, his grin broad and full of awe. 'Aren't you glad to see me?' He lifts up the half-full bottle of bourbon he'd snatched from the bedside table and twists it open, shoving the neck into his father's mouth. 'Here,' he says courteously. 'Have a drink on me. It'll be just like old times.' The man sputters and swallows around the liquid that burns his throat. 'Oh, come on,' Jacob continues harshly. 'It's your favorite brand!' He pulls the bottle away and sits it down on the counter top before punching the old man sharply in the throat. He chokes, sputtering around a broken hyoid. Paul smiles at Jacob over his father's head and nods. _This is your kill._

Jacob tilts his head as flecks of blood collect in the spittle around his father's mouth. 'I really should let you suffer for a while,' he muses. 'Draw this out.' The old man shakes his head, misery and confusion flooding his face. 'Why?' he manages to gasp, and Jacob slaps him hard across the face. He pulls an expensive silk handkerchief out of his pocket, pilfered from his father's own drawer, and makes a tight knot in the middle before binding it across his father's mouth.

'Why?' Jacob echoes. 'How can you even _ask_ me that? Don't you see what I've become? Aren't you proud?' Jacob's face colors with rage, and he steps back, taking several deep breaths. 'You know,' he ponders aloud. 'I was never really sure that I was yours. I mean, think about it. I don't even look like you.' Paul smirks, punching the old man in the back when he tries to squirm away. He gives up and falls, dead weight in Paul's arms, and he lowers the man to his knees.

Jacob paces the bathroom, traveling out through the bedroom and into the hallway before venturing back, giving the alcohol time to flood his father's bloodstream. He returns and stares down at the useless lump of flesh that used to be his father, now bound and gagged and completely at his mercy. Jacob squats down, leveling the point of the knife in the center of his throat, just above the collarbone. 'I think I'm going to take my time. Oh, don't worry,' he adds. 'You won't feel much. At least, with all the adrenaline in your system, I don't think you will.' He presses the knife slowly into the soft flesh of the neck, crating a small cut that stretches and deepens as he drags the blade slowly down his sternum and past the delicate xiphoid. He pulls back at the edges of the torn skin, no easy task in his gloves, and his father hisses and chokes with pain.

'Oh, my mistake,' Jacob says, looking up at Paul with sarcastic contrition. 'You _do_ have a heart in there, after all. Just look at it beat.' He pokes a finger between the second and third ribs, pushing aside a nest of nerves and arteries to feel it pulse. His father makes incomprehensible sounds of pain and desperation around the gag, soaking it with blood and saliva. 'Uh oh,' Jacob says, tilting his head to one side. 'Looks like it's slowing down. Not much I can do about that; after all, I'm no doctor.'

Paul laughs aloud, and Jacob continues to slice downward from the ribs, tearing at the mesenteric sheath. His father cries aloud, straining at the gag and the ties around his wrists. Jacob doesn't stop until he's sliced an even path through the lower organs and both sets of intestines. Remnants of food and liquid sit only partially digested in his stomach, and Paul nods when he sees it. Assuming there's enough of the old man left to autopsy, he won't look like he went to bed on an empty stomach. Jacob sits back, shaking his head. 'You know, I think your heart was just a lot more interesting than the rest of you,' he decides, springing forward on his feet and slowly, one by one, severing the numerous connecting branches of the nervous and circulatory systems in his way. He punctures the left lung and watches it deflate like a balloon with a curious smile.

Jacob looks his father in the face for the last time, eyes at half mast, tears leaking down his face. 'Goodbye, Dad,' he says calmly, and slowly works the knife between the bones, careful not to leave any telltale nicks on the bones themselves before sinking down into the strong, resilient muscles of the heart itself. It's difficult work, but he manages, pushing first through one chamber, and then the second beneath. His father's face has gone slack, the blood drained and all his color gone with it. His chest is a dissected wreck, and Jacob pulls out the knife, examining his work.

Paul lowers the body to the ground and carefully removes the gag before it can leave an impression in the flesh. 'One more thing,' he says, and motions to the eyes. Jacob smiles, and sets about removing them, one connective muscle at a time. 'You know,' he says over his shoulder. 'Joe was right about something, after all. This is very difficult to manage.' He laughs, and Paul rests his hand on Jacob's shoulder until the work is done. Jacob holds his father's lifeless eyes in his palm, watching as the surface congeals, obscuring their color. 'It's a shame I have to put them back in,' he mutters, turning them over and over again in his leather clad palm.

'You can't exactly keep them,' Paul reasons. 'We didn't bring any formaldehyde.'

'You don't think they'd look lovely on the mantle?' Jacob counters, and Paul breaks out a grin. They each place one eye back into the old man's empty, brutalized sockets, not wanting to leave anything out of place for the inevitable forensic team to comb through in the aftermath. Jacob knows that the heat from a fire will often cause the eyeballs to boil and explode, but there should be at least some residual tissue left in place to scrape from the charred bones. They lift the body from the floor and arrange it carefully on the bed, covers turned down, as if he were watching TV on the giant monitor atop the dresser. It's not easy, and they have to hold his intestines in to keep them from spilling across the floor. Paul cuts the zip ties at his wrists, noting the lack of bruising with a pleased nod. They remove his pants and shuffle him into a pair of striped pajama slacks, the sort Jacob's mother always bought for him, year after year. Jacob finds the remote to the television and leaves it sitting near his right hand.

 

They both take care of the mess in the bathroom, mopping it up with cleaning towels found under the sink and scouring the floor with a harsh scrubbing powder. They rub out any remaining stains on the tile and grout with bleach, and within an hour, the room is once again spotless. They take a thorough shower to rinse the blood from their bodies, scrubbing at each other's hands and faces. Paul pulls up the plug in the drain to remove any hair they might have left behind, wipes down the shower walls and floor, and follows the entire process up with another course of bleach straight from the bottle. Always so prepared, his mother, stocking the cabinets with plenty of cleaning supplies for the maid. Ready to handle any domestic emergency, even the unexpected.

They dry off, bundling up all the towels they've used to take with them, and Jacob dresses in a second set of clothing secured in a small duffel. His blood-stained clothes go back inside, along with the ruined rag towels, and he carefully wipes away any prints they may have left behind on the bottle of bleach. Other household chemicals could be counted on to catch fire and explode, but it would be just his luck if the fire seared his prints onto the bottle. Of course, they're bound to find his prints somewhere in the rubble; he spent hunting season and most of the summer on Arrowhead Lake every year. Jacob can be certain that the maid has been very thorough in the meantime, however, and he's not about to leave any traces behind that could have been avoided.

They wait a while longer, staying out of sight of the windows, and pulling the curtains shut where they can. They take a few bottles of wine, all of an excellent vintage, burying them in amongst the clothes and the towel, just for kicks. Jacob slides on a pair of knit gloves that aren't stained with blood and pokes around at artefacts from his adolescence, art he never cared for, framed photographs of his parents. He finds one or two with his image; the first fish he caught, beaming with all the pride an eight-year-old could manage. Stuffed into a grim suit with his cousin beside him, picking at the lace on her dress, ring bearer and flower girl at someone's wedding.

'Anything you want to take with you?' Paul asks. 'Nothing's going to be missed after we're done with this place.' He's never cared for taking trophies himself, and has tried to discourage the habit in Jacob, but he knows this kill is special. It's not just family, not just a grudge; it's Jacob's _first_ and Paul couldn't be more proud. Jacob looks around the sparsely decorated rooms, everything perfect and in its place, as it always had been. He picks up a framed photograph from a large family gathering, taken just before Jacob went off to college. It's a perfect summation of the event; every smile, each hand carefully placed on a younger shoulder reading false, even to the least discerning eye. He stares down at it for a moment before shoving it in their bag, thinking of re-framing it and putting it up somewhere he won't have to look at it very often. New acquaintances always ask about family, and while he's photoshopped his mother into a couple of pictures taken in Nevada, he thinks having this around might provide a better answer than any of his hastily forged lies.

He brushes a thin layer of dust from the side table where it sat, rearranging the other _objects d'art_ to look as though nothing was ever out of place. The eat snacks from the kitchen, preparing a simple meal and leaving the cookware in the sink. His mother never would have stood for it, but when his father took him hunting, Jacob always ended up having to do the chores. Without his mother around to supervise, he doubts his father can manage to clean up after himself at all. They wrap up leftovers and stick them in the fridge, as if kept for a later meal. They wash one dish and drinking glass carefully, returning them to the cabinet, leaving the second plate and one set of silverware in the sink. Jacob puts the glass in his father's right hand, pressing it to his lips to leave an impression, before leaving it on the kitchen counter.

 

Sometime after ten p.m., Jacob returns to the bedroom with a heavy glass tumbler and fills it to the brim with bourbon from the side table. He tips it up to his father's lips, watching in fascination as the liquid pours down his throat and travels into his ruined stomach. He doesn't know how much of the liquor from earlier will remain detectable in his system once he's fried to a crisp, but he'll always remember the satisfaction of watching an old drunk choke on his favorite poison. He fills it again, the glass bottle at least two thirds empty, and wraps his father's left hand around the glass. He turns it slightly, and does it again, to mimic an evening of drinking alone. He holds his father's fingers around the glass, raising his arm and slowly tilting it to spill across his chest and groin before letting it fall. Paul stands in the doorway, watching as the glass hits the bed and rolls away across the carpet.

'You think that will be enough?' Jacob asks, watching the booze soak down into the sheets. Paul turns the TV to a sports channel and nods, glancing about the room for anything they might have missed. 'It'll catch,' he says. 'We just have to hope it incinerates him, or melts him enough to mitigate the damage. Either way, no one knows our names out here, and our paper trail says we've been forty miles away this entire time.' Jacob breathes out, fear rising in his chest for the first time since they started this particular adventure. He knows they've been careful, using false names and IDs, and knows that if nothing else, Paul is damn good at what he does. He'd never let Jacob get caught.

Jacob retrieves his father's favorite decorative lighter from his office, a gift from an old hunting buddy, and relights the end of the cigar, letting it burn down a little more. He grabs a bottle of spray air freshener from the bathroom and leaves it on the dresser, as if his father had been trying to cover up the smell of smoke. His mother never could abide his smoking in the house. Jacob cracks the window, belatedly remembering that if the alarm had been reset after his father came home, it would have just gone off. Paul freezes, waiting for the sound, and then nods. 'That's good,' he says. 'If your father didn't secure the house when he came home, he's probably not in the habit, and we don't have to reset it behind us when we leave. You know they track that shit.'

'What about this morning?' Jacob asks, the fear catching in his throat, but Paul waves off his concerns. 'So your father forgot something, and came right back for it. I'm sure that's not unusual.'

'My mom was always the one who remembered to turn it on at night anyway,' Jacob remembers, his father always foolishly certain that he could defend the house from intruders all on his own. He laughs at the thought, and Paul just shakes his head and smiles. He grabs their duffel in one hand and waits in the doorway for Jacob to finish what he started.

Jacob sticks the burning cigar between his father's lips, rolling it around on his tongue for good measure, before wrapping lifeless fingers around it once, twice, three times, and letting it fall. The alcohol on his skin doesn't immediately catch, but his soaked trousers do, and before long, the entire bed is alight, flames licking up the walls as they hungrily stretch out and upwards to the ceiling.

'All right,' Paul says. 'This is our exit.' Jacob nods, and they head out the back door, retrieving their shoes and putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the house. They work their way back to the car from the lake side, their dark clothes making them nearly impossible to spot on the moonless night. They only pass two other houses, neither of which have a single light burning, and as Paul starts the engine, Jacob finally feels as if they might be safe.

Their path back to the airport takes them by the far side of the lake, and Jacob wishes he had his camera to capture the shot of the flames licking out through the windows, the roof seared and beginning to crumble in upon itself. It's beautiful, it's perfect, and that singular memory will always be his.

 

They grab dinner and make it back to the hotel in Avoca, Jacob downing his burger with the sort of voracious appeal Paul has honestly never witnessed. 'Hungry much?' he asks with a hint of amusement.

'Starved,' Jacob replies, licking the ketchup off his fingers. They let themselves back into their room, paid up for the rest of the night in advance, and Jacob immediately strips out of his clothes. Paul watches with interest, figuring he's not intent on a second shower this evening.

Sure enough, he struts across the room to Paul and unzips his jacket, a hungry gleam in his eyes. Paul lets him, shrugging out of the fabric and starting to lift up the t-shirt beneath. 'No,' Jacob commands, and his fingers stop their movement, curious as to where this is going. Jacob bends down and unties his shoes, taking them off one by one before kneeling and pulling down Paul's track pants. He licks his way across the fabric of Paul's briefs before standing up and pulling the t-shirt roughly over Paul's head. Jacob grabs his hand and pulls him over to the bed, shoving him down so hard against the mattress that the springs bounce back up against him.

Paul's eyes are hooded, his pupils dilated and his cock begins to strain at the restrictive fabric. Jacob pulls a small bottle of lube from their duffel bag and drifts back to the bed with careful, heavy steps. He climbs on top of Paul, kissing him hard and firm across the mouth, pulling away before Paul can pry his lips open with his searching tongue. He slides down, nipping and sucking at Paul's neck, biting his way across his collarbone with a fierce intensity. It hurts, but the noises Paul makes don't sound anything like _stop._ He sucks on Paul's left nipple, pinching the right until it's raised, nearly purple and swollen from the force. Jacob switches sides and licks the sore nipple from beneath, flicking his tongue under and up before squeezing the left nipple just as hard.

Paul's back arches under him, his breaths struggling to catch up. Jacob's nearly always enthusiastic about sex, even when he's half awake and it makes him late for school, but this – this is a side to Jacob that Paul's never seen. It's exciting, and almost dangerous, and his cock throbs in response. Jacob continues toying with his nipples, giving them a sharp, occasional flip as his mouth moves down Paul's bare chest, sucking bruises into his skin. He nuzzles his face into the hair below Paul's navel, slipping down to suck the skin in the hollows of his hips. First one side, and then the other, leaving visible teeth marks behind as he claims the red patches of flesh as his own.

Paul's hips buck up against him, his cock brushing against Jacob's chest through a wet layer of cotton, but Jacob just teases, licking his way around the waistband, tugging it down slowly with his teeth. He licks the head of Paul's cock once it becomes visible, and Paul stops biting his lips long enough to let out a moan he's certain the entire hotel can hear. He doesn't care, as long as Jacob doesn't stop. Jacob wraps his lips around the velvety skin, toying at the retreating foreskin with his tongue before roughly ripping the fabric off entirely, shoving the briefs down Paul's legs to where he can kick them off.

He slowly strokes Paul's cock, heavy with pooling blood, from base to tip, detouring to grasp his balls in one hand and rub them ungently between his fingers. Every breath that falls from Paul's lips is a moan, staggering and begging for more. Jacob takes Paul's cock in his mouth, sliding up and down, one hand holding down his bruised hips while the other strokes hard and firm at the base. Paul's hips ruck up against him, keeping the rhythm until he honestly thinks his brain might explode from the sensation.

Just as he feels the curling warmth in his stomach, the rising pressure at the base of his spine that means he's close, Jacob pulls away and he cries out in disappointment. Jacob smiles, holding himself over Paul to see the lost expression on his face. His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide and searching as his hands slide across the comforter, looking for a solid grip. Jacob pops the cap off the lube and coats his shaft, circling the tightly coiled muscles between Paul's cheeks until they give and begin to open. He presses inside without warning and Paul bites down on the inside of his cheeks, feeling Jacob slide as deep inside as he can go.

He stays there for a painful, frustrating movement, holding Paul in place with both hands when he struggles for motion. 'Please,' Paul begs. 'God, Jacob please, just - '

'Just what?' Jacob asks innocently, digging his thumbs into Paul's hipbones.

'Move,' Paul gasps out. 'Do something, anything,' he breathes, and Jacob's never heard him sound so needy. It's instantly gratifying, the power he holds over his lover in this moment, and he can't bear to let it go so easily.

'Tell me how you felt, watching me tonight,' Jacob demands, his mouth set in a wicked smirk.

'It – it was overwhelming,' Paul replies, squirming across the sheets. 'You were fascinating. Christ, when you stuck him in the throat and just kept going, I thought - '

'You thought what?' Jacob asks, thoughtfully, sliding back a few short inches before plunging in again.

'I thought I was going to come in my pants, right there. It was beautiful. You hands, reaching inside him – ah -' he cries out as Jacob begins to move in rhythm, sliding in and out as slowly as he can manage. 'You were laughing, cutting through his veins, ripping out his nerves and I knew you had it in you, I've always known, but -'

Jacob slams his hips against Paul's, rocking back and forth in a ferocious rhythm. 'Yeah?'

'God, yes,' Paul manages, canting his hips up as far as Jacob will allow to meet each violent thrust. 'You've never looked so amazing to me as you did tonight.' He draws in a quick breath, words spilling from his mouth like a rush of water from a faucet. 'Jacob, you cut his heart in half, you set him on _fire_ – ah, GOD!' Paul cries out as Jacob's head hits his prostate again and again. Jacob licks his lips.

'You liked seeing his blood on me,' Jacob says, and it's not even a question.

'Yes,' Paul answers anyway. 'You were up to your elbows in it and I – I,' he breaks off into a guttural moan, his cock twitching above his torso, a few errant drops of come sliding down its length. Jacob smiles, and thrusts slower, rolling his hips down and back as he leans in, sliding his hands up Paul's chest. He keeps Paul's legs spread wide with his knees pressed firmly against them while his fingers wrap lightly around Paul's throat.

Paul leans his head back, his hair grazing the wooden headboard as he exposes his throat. Jacob's fingers tighten, wrapping his hands around the offered skin, bearing down carefully above his larynx. His thumbs dig in below Paul's chin, and he gasps, feeling the breath stutter in his throat, trapped in his lungs. Jacob presses harder and the hotel ceiling becomes a maze of stars, glittering above his head. His chest contracts, fighting for air but Jacob doesn't relent, twisting his hands back and forth the way he way he's learned from Paul, time and time again. Paul's eyes roll back, his hips bucking up frantically and Jacob increases the pace of his thrusts, skin slapping against skin as he holds back his release, wanting to force Paul's control to shatter first.

When it does, a harsh sound tears from Paul's throat, and Jacob gives his throat one final squeeze before letting his hands roam back down, rubbing his come across his chest and circling his nipples with the hot, wet fluid. Paul turns his head away, breathing shallow and ragged, hips still moving hard against Jacob's, muscles spasming and contracting to draw him in and finally break him. Jacob's head falls forward, his hands gripping Paul's sides and it only takes a few more thrusts, shifting his angle for the best possible friction before he spills, hard and fast inside. Jacob throws his head back, sweat dripping down the sides of his face and spilling down his back before withdrawing and collapsing at Paul's feet.

Paul shifts on the bed, crawling on his knees to where Jacob lies, curling around him and wrapping his arms tight about his shoulders. He rubs his fingers through Jacob's sweat-damp hair, kisses his cheek, and turns his head far enough to claim his mouth, thrusting his tongue past his lips and biting down on Jacob's tongue. Jacob kisses him back, exhausted and spent, and they wrap their limbs around one another, unable to keep any distance between sticky wet skin.

'I'm beginning to wonder just who wears the pants in this relationship,' Paul cracks, his voice still hoarse. Jacob grabs a handful of his hair and looks him dead in the eye.

'Good,' he says, looking strangely serious. 'Now go make me a sandwich.' Paul smacks his ass hard enough to leave a hand print, and they both fall back in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

'I should have done that a long time ago,' Jacob murmurs once they've both calmed down and are twined together lengthwise on the bed.

'What,' Paul asks. 'Kill your father or dominate the fuck out of me?'

'Yes,' Jacob answers with a grin, and reaches out for Paul's face, kissing him hard and sloppy before Paul can even think about responding.

_ These streets are yours, you can keep them, _   
_ In my mind it's like you haunt them, _   
_ I won't show my face here anymore. _   
_ All that's left behind is a shadow on my mind. _


End file.
